Heartland (14 page)

Everyone crowds to the front of Donny’s house to admire the shining old car, large enough to carry eight in comfort. In the front seat, Roe McAneny, her face grim, is chauffeured by her sister Aureole. In the copious rear are Delia and a tall man.

‘It’s Reverend Stevens!’ says Tina Kingi, looking in some alarm at Father Benedict. ‘Have we got a fight on our hands here?’

But the priest spreads his arms as if inviting all to partake of the loaves and fishes. He winks at Donny. ‘Don’t worry, my boy, it’s all arranged. The good Lord understands. We’re not in any consecrated church here.’ He lowers his voice to whisper, ‘But I’ll go first. Your boy will be a proper Catholic.’

Miss Roe descends with difficulty. The brief ride was necessary not only to save her aching legs but also to transport the magnificent cake which Delia and Aureole carry to the table. The frosting on its two tiers sparkles in the sun; there are three candles (‘For Manny’s three great-aunts,’ explains Aureole); and the plate has a tartan border, no doubt reinforcing the Scottish Presbyterian ancestry. Reverend Stevens, taller, thinner and less jolly than the priest, shakes hands solemnly with Father Benedict and Donny, then walks over to inspect the food table, perhaps at a loss over what might happen next. Roe proceeds slowly to one of the two chairs and settles herself.

‘Let’s get the ball rolling, eh?’ Father Benedict claps Donny on the back. ‘Where’s the little man?’ He looks to the back door, and there is Bull, his arms gently holding the resplendent baby, the lacy white gown cascading over his hands and down almost to his knees. Manny blinks in the sunlight; waves his
little fists as if responding to a cheering crowd.

‘Oh, the little darling!’ cries Aureole. ‘The little McAneny!’

‘Trace! Trace!’ shouts Donny, torn between pride and anxiety. ‘Come on, it’s starting!’

‘Go on, you big lump,’ mutters Vera, ‘go in and bring her out.’

Donny runs up the steps and into the kitchen. There’s the Virgin, hiding in the bedroom, holding Sky. The solemn little child is dressed in a lacy petticoat made from one of Bull’s antimacassars.

But Tracey, white faced, is stuck, it seems. ‘Go on,’ she says, giving Donny a shove. ‘I’m not coming.’

Donny takes Sky from her, and settles the baby in the crook of his elbow. Then he links arms with Tracey and walks her into the kitchen. He stands with her at the door, the three of them looking down at the little group on the back lawn.

‘You can do it, Trace,’ whispers Donny, gentle for once, ‘don’t be scared.’

For a moment everyone is silent. Tracey trembles and Donny thinks she will bolt, but then Aureole begins to clap.

‘It’s like a wedding! Is it a wedding too?’

The Virgin rolls her eyes and snorts, but her mood is broken. She descends and walks arm in arm with Donny up to the priest.

‘This is Tracey Smith and Sky,’ says Donny. ‘Would you mind doing her baby too?’

‘Well,’ says Father Benedict, ‘well now, isn’t this the strangest christening? Is the little one a Catholic then?’

‘Whatever,’ says the Virgin. ‘Whatever Manny is, Sky is too.’

‘This is Manawa, Father,’ says Bull, grinning. ‘Things tend to be a bit different here. Could you make an exception perhaps?’

So, under the good warm sun, Emanuel Munroe McAneny and Sky Smith are blessed three times. First the holy water welcomes them into the Catholic congregation, then Koro Pita blesses them in te reo Maori, pointing with his carved staff at the mountain, Ruapehu, and the river Mangahuehu which will now be theirs, and bestowing upon them Maori bird names — the cheeky weka for Manny and tiny hihi for Sky. Finally, Reverend Stevens steps forward. Roe gestures to her sisters to help her up. She glowers at priest and koro, lays a proprietary hand on Manny, and gives the reverend the nod. Sky is no part of her plan, but Donny and Tracey think otherwise. Both babies receive a stern Presbyterian blessing. Roe nods grimly. In her mind the last blessing will annul any that came before.

‘Whoo hoo, lucky babies!’ shouts Donny Mac.

A game of rugby

It always surprises Vera to see how many people turn up to the rugby. None of the townies, of course — they’ll be up the mountain skiing if it’s fine and in the pub if the mountain’s closed. But on days like this, when Manawa plays Ohakune, the sports field beside Manawa school is lined with bundled-up spectators, plenty of them supporting Manawa.

George Kingi’s down on the field warming up the Manawa boys — he’s had a tough time recently with Mona and needs to get out of the house, in Vera’s opinion. And there’s Bull’s motor parked up on the road where he can get a good view. She knocks on his windscreen.

‘You lazy old bugger, Bull, you could walk up here in the time it takes you to get the car started!’ But she’s only joking. It’s good he’s come. If he needs the security of the enclosed space, that’s his business.

Bull smiles at her through the window and gestures at the
empty seat beside him. Vera shakes her head. She likes to be within shouting distance of the players. Maybe later when her legs give out … She pauses, though, for a moment, at the sight of the dark bundle on the back seat.

‘What’ve you got in behind there, Bull?’ And then laughs to see a face almost hidden in the folds. It’s the Virgin.

Bull winds the window down a fraction. ‘Donny wanted her and the babies to see him play. She’s a bit shy of a crowd.’

You and her both, thinks Vera, but doesn’t say anything. It’s a step forward that Bull allows the Virgin in the car. She waves at them both, then trudges through the gate and down on to the verge, pulling her old greatcoat tighter. There’s a nip in the wind even though the pale sun is out.

Donny Mac’s there, proud as punch, his jersey spotless, his socks pulled up, headgear already laced in place.

‘Go Donny boy, you show ’em!’ shouts Vera. She loves the excitement of these games, particularly when it’s against Ohakune. More than once George has had to restrain her from charging on to the field. Today should be a good one too. Manawa is in with a chance for the cup.

Vera spots the Ohakune mob. There’s Di Masefield and that poisonous son of hers, Ethan, who has never played the game but pronounces on every move as though he has swallowed the rule-book. Today Ethan is standing hand in hand with young Betty Leong. Vera grins to see them. Ethan’s flirtation with homosexuality lasted only as long as the threat of being named the father of Nightshade’s baby. Now that Nightshade has disappeared, Ethan’s ‘boyfriend’ has been given the boot and Betty, the daughter of wealthy market gardeners, has taken his
place at Ethan’s side. Di must be pleased. Or maybe not? More than likely her rich seam of prejudice extends to the Chinese.

Vera sees George Kingi and goes to stand with her own Manawa supporters. She scans the players warming up on the field. ‘Bloody hell, George, that son of yours still injured?’

George nods in a preoccupied kind of way.

‘Don’t tell me Fitz is doing our kicking? He’s hopeless! We’ll never win with his boot.’

‘Now, Vera, give him a chance. He’s been working on it.’

But Vera can see he’s as worried as she is. Fitz is standing on the sideline, chatting up someone in a smart overcoat, not one of the locals. No doubt some new enterprise he has in mind. He bloody should be getting his eye in.

Vera stumps over to him. ‘Fitz, my boy, we’re relying on you. Get out there and line up a shot or two.’

‘Don’t panic,’ says Fitz, cocky as ever, ‘I’m ready.’ He turns back to the man — a townie for sure. ‘Stay and watch the match, Frank. You might have a laugh.’

But the man smiles, shakes Fitz’s hand and walks away.

A laugh! Vera is outraged.

At the beginning of the second half, Ohakune is ahead by three points. The smug look on the Masefield faces drives Vera mad.

‘For pity’s sake use a different kicker!’ she rages to George Kingi. ‘We’d be ahead if Fitz hadn’t missed those two shots.’

But George has another problem on his hands. Donny. He’s standing still on the field, marooned, it seems, while the play continues around him. George suspects Ethan. That bloody boy was taunting Donny during half-time.

‘Donny! Donny Mac!’ shouts George. ‘Wake up, boy! The game!’

Donny shakes his head, looks around, then charges down the field after the rest of the pack. His face is murderous. He roars into the ruck, comes up with the ball, pushes off a couple of tacklers and heads for the line. No one can stop him. He dots down between the posts, to the delight of the Manawa supporters, but just stares at the ball, frowning, until Fitz picks it up and this time manages to convert.

After another barnstorming run by Donny which results in a second try for Manawa and two Ohakune players nursing their wounds, George, afraid the boy will seriously hurt someone, if not himself, pulls him off the field. The crowd cheers him to the sideline, but Donny doesn’t seem to notice. He stomps up to the road and stands there by Bull’s car, staring back at the players but perhaps seeing nothing. Vera, pretty sure that the game is in the bag, and curious, decides to follow. Anyway, her feet are giving her gyp, and she’s hoping for a nip from Bull’s flask.

‘Something got your goat, eh?’ she says to the glowering lad.

Donny nods.

‘Was it one of the players?’

Donny kicks loose stones around. He won’t look at her. The Virgin has wound down the window now and is listening.

‘It was Ethan!’ Donny’s voice, too loud, is thankfully drowned by the shouting crowd: the game is over and Manawa has won the cup. ‘He said that
he
was probably Manny’s father, not me! He said I couldn’t do it properly!’

‘Good bloody God,’ says Vera, ‘that little prick! He’ll be the one couldn’t do it. Don’t take any notice, Donny.’

‘The others heard. They laughed.’

‘Well, they’re fools. Worse than fools.’ Vera looks in at Bull, who has surely heard but is staring ahead through the windscreen, unable, it seems, to offer a comforting word.

The Virgin is the one who reacts. She’s out of the car and heading down to the field before Donny or Vera realise what she’s up to. Encased in her outsize ski jacket, face hidden inside the hood, big boots clomping, she barrels across to the Masefield group like a dark nightmare. Vera sees the swift punch, sees Ethan crumple to the ground, clutching his privates. Then the bundle that is the Virgin marches away, tripping once or twice on the coat, but no one is laughing. She reaches the car and climbs back in without a word, picks up Sky and gives her a cuddle.

‘Whoo hoo, Trace,’ says Donny.

Vera is not so pleased. Those Masefields are dangerous.

The sewage problem

For a week after the rugby final, Di Masefield entertains the idea that Pansy Holloway’s illegitimate child might be her grandson. Ethan’s taunts to the unfortunate Donny Mac could well be the truth. The idea carries a certain charm. She longs to walk down the street with a trusting little hand in hers; can hear herself explaining to admiring friends how she has rescued the poor little mite. She imagines dressing him smartly, reading him stories, sending him to a good school where he does exceptionally well. None of her three children is particularly close. Di occasionally pauses in her rush from activity to activity and thinks rather wistfully of lost opportunities: Sunday lunches where the grown children return to enjoy a roast, play a game or two and leave after bestowing hugs. A loving little grandchild might bring a certain glow back to their too-large, too-empty house.

The drawback to these imaginings, of course, would
be Pansy Holloway. Di’s dream of grandparenthood does not involve the mother; even Ethan is a shadowy bit-player somewhere in the background. If Pansy returned, ownership would become messy and unpleasant.

Di writes to Iris Holloway with whom she has been in intermittent contact over a business venture in Auckland.

Di waits a fortnight. She even finds herself eyeing baby clothes in Buck’s Drapery. But when no reply comes, she finds her interest waning. Di admits she’s always attracted by a new project; she’s equally quick to move on when the project stalls. She hears news of movement in the ongoing sewage scheme for Manawa, and grandmotherhood is put on the back burner for the time being.

‘Well then, Andrew, let’s have a look,’ she says briskly, studying the plans spread on his desk. ‘That bunch of protesters has folded then?’

‘Not exactly folded, no not at all, I wouldn’t say that. I’d say that we came to a compromise.’

Di eyes him across the desk. ‘Compromise is a dangerous thing, Andrew. Leads to wishy-washy agreements that don’t stand up in court.’

Andrew smiles mildly back at her. ‘I think you’ll find we’ve done our homework. It’s rather clever. We’re all signed and sealed. Digging started yesterday.’

In Di’s opinion, Andrew is not up to the job. She takes in his lack of tie, crumpled shirt, glasses mended with sellotape. Hair already receding. Di, who possesses extremely vigorous hair, believes that abundant hair in older men denotes a strong personality. She sighs. ‘Well, let’s see what you’ve given away.’

Andrew taps the plan. ‘Designated Open Spaces,’ he says.

‘What?’

Andrew is all too ready to explain. ‘Designated Open Spaces. A rather neat concept. The protest group, you see, complained that bringing in a sewage scheme would allow subdivision, thus ruining the rural nature of Manawa. Now—’ he indicates several shaded sections on the plan, some blue, some red — ‘there are many empty sections in Manawa, as you know.’

He smiles up at Di and she becomes uneasy. What is this weasel up to? Is he aware of her property interests in Manawa? She’s been careful to disguise some of her purchases under the name of a trust. Doesn’t want to start a rush. Sections are as cheap as dirt in Manawa, and she has her eye on several more.

‘Some of the empty sections are Crown land—’ he taps the plan again—, ‘those marked in blue. And several more county land — the red ones. These we have posted as Designated Open Spaces. Can’t be sold. They will protect the rural nature, you see. Open fields dotted throughout the settlement for the enjoyment of all.’ He beams. ‘We bring sewage to Manawa. They retain a degree of rural atmosphere.’

Di studies the plan. She’s appalled. ‘But Andrew, there’s no pattern to this. They’re dotted everywhere. No rhyme or reason.’

Andrew nods. ‘Exactly. That’s the beauty of it. These just happen to be sections that have fallen into Crown or county hands over the years. Quite haphazard. The protest group spokesman was rather complimentary.’

Di can scarcely contain her rage. She pretends to study the plan in detail but can see all too clearly that several of the sections crucial to her chalet-village scheme are now wretched Open Spaces. There are more than twenty marked here. ‘This one,’ she says, pointing to a red-shaded section close to two of hers and opposite Donny’s place. ‘Where’s your entrepreneurial spirit, Andrew? The county could be making much-needed money by selling this, not making ridiculous compromises. I’d make an offer myself.’

Andrew stands. ‘Done and dusted, Di. Not for sale.’ He offers his hand, which she is forced to shake. ‘You’ll get a copy of the plan in the mail. Now. I’ve got another meeting.’

Di drives back to Ohakune, her mind racing. Could she somehow incorporate Open Spaces as part of the chalet-plan design? Could someone higher up be persuaded to sell a few lots? She blares her horn at a cow that has wandered onto the road, then slams on the brakes as the cow stalls and turns to face her. She glares at the silly placid animal. Every bloody thing is against her today.

What is it, she rages to herself, as she continues on through the bright morning landscape — what is it about sad, run-down old Manawa that seems to bring out rushes of sentimentality in otherwise rational people? How, for instance, does it manage to field a rugby team, let alone a whole bunch of supporters? Manawa’s time as an independent
town is long gone. The few permanent inhabitants are
odd-balls
and misfits, remaining because they lack the initiative to move elsewhere; the school will inevitably close soon; the sad excuse for a second-hand store has already shut down. Why on earth would anyone in their right mind want to retain anything about Manawa, let alone its ‘rural nature’?

She roars into the service station, slaps away the young lad who offers to help and fills up herself. On the
newsstand
the
Ruapehu Bulletin
headlines the satisfactory sewage compromise:
Double victory for brave little community! Rugby Cup and Open Spaces!

If she was not a strong and rational woman (the last, it would seem, in this neck of the woods), Di Masefield would be inclined to shed a tear.